


Mon Tournesol

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Macaron the Cat, Massages, One Shot, Pet Names, Short One Shot, a surprise return of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: Enjolras is tense, Grantaire brings home dinner and gives him a massage.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Mon Tournesol

**Author's Note:**

> For Squid. This is short and mostly unedited, but sweet.

Grantaire came home after him most days, staying at the studio until long past sunset. He didn’t mind in the slightest; time tended to slip by dangerously fast when he worked from home, curled up on the couch with their two cats and a blanket Jehan crocheted. In fact, it meant Grantaire brought home curry from the Indian restaurant a few blocks over, and that made it worth missing his boyfriend an extra hour or two. 

Today was no different; he’d been wading through legal jargon for too many hours, his glasses were dirty, and they’d run out of earl grey tea. The sun had just dipped below the horizon when the telltale clatter of Grantaire’s keys in the door shook him out of the stupor he’d fallen into, staring blankly at page 40. 

“I brought curry!” he declared, triumphant, holding up a take-out bag. “And tea, but that’s less exciting for me and mostly important to you.” His voice turned golden with fondness, and he snuck up behind Enjolras to wrap his shoulders in a hug and tuck his nose into his curls. 

_“I missed you”_ went unspoken between them, but Grantaire slid warm hands up Enjolras’s forearms and he rolled his head back, leaning into his collarbone. 

“You’re tense.” It was easy to hear the frown in Grantaire’s voice, after years of listening for it. “Hang on.”

His warmth departed, and Enjolras resigned himself to getting no more work done the rest of the night. He slipped his reading glasses off and blinked hard as Grantaire rustled around in the kitchen. 

“Stay there, _mon soleil_ ,” he called, and Enjolras heard his footsteps pause for a moment as he cooed softly at Macaron. Then he returned triumphant with two boxes in hand, stained curry-yellow around the edges, and presented one to Enjolras with a tiny bow. “Your favorite.” He sat down, squishing his way between Enjolras and the armrest. “Get on the floor, c’mon,” he said, and patted the worm couch cushion between his knees. “Sit here.” 

He obliged, and a burst of warmth surged through his chest as he settled back between Grantaire’s knees and perched the take-out box on his lap. “‘M not that tense,” he argued, and quieted down as soon as Grantaire pressed deft fingers to the knots in his shoulder and he flinched.

“Point made. Tell me about your day, _tournesol_.” This had become a habit for them, a part of the easy ebb and flow of life since their lives compacted neatly into the single-bedroom single-bathroom apartment. It switched who needed attention, extra care pressed between the pinch points of their muscles; Enjolras spent too many hours hunched over a laptop or a file or a law book, and Grantaire pushed his limits with art and too many nights Enjolras had to rub between his fingers with love. 

Enjolras shivered as Grantaire pulled his hair down, unraveling the bun he customarily held it back in and running gentle fingernails across the top of his head. 

“Still on that same case,” he finally said, leaning one cheek against Grantaire’s knee as he scratched down to the nape of his neck. “Did some digging today into city codes and whatnot, but it feels like a dead end. Mabeuf and I’ll have to start down some other path tomorrow, I suppose.” Their two cats peeked at them from opposite corners of the sofa, and Enjolras tapped the carpet next to him. Macaron trotted over with her tail in the air, while Pate-a-Choux sank to his belly to creep up on his take-out. 

Grantaire rubbed long, slow strokes into his shoulders, thumbs cleaving the aching tissue, and he nearly dropped a bite of tofu curry in ecstasy. Behind him, his boyfriend chuckled, and bent to press a kiss to the top of his head. “Told you you were tense, babe,” he said, and Enjolras offered his shin a playful swat. 

“Wouldn’t be so tense if I wasn’t making the money so you get to do what you love.”

They had that conversation a lot. Grantaire, brow knitted with worry, insisted that Enjolras was working too hard and he should cut back, take a lower-pressure job, spend fewer hours glued to information on a laptop screen. Every time Enjolras kissed his cheek and reminded him why he did it: Grantaire’s art had absorbed him, heart and soul, and his exact words were usually something along the lines of it’s worth it for you. 

Grantaire rubbed his back a lot, as his own private way of thanking him and as remuneration for the hours spent apart. 

He felt as his fingers discovered a knot below his shoulder blade and dug in, working through the muscle, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. “ _Aimé_ ,” he began, but Grantaire shushed him softly. 

“Eat your dinner. Talk in a bit.”

The minutes ticked by lazily, and Enjolras absently stroked his fingers over Grantaire’s thigh as he ate, savoring the warmth of the curry and the care Grantaire took with him as he massaged. 

Then, his same quick fingers ran up the side of Enjolras’s head and started combing the messy curls back from his forehead, fingertips ghosting over his hairline as Grantaire stroked through his hair. 

Another few minutes trickled by until his hands tapped across his shoulders. “You’re all done, _ma lumière_ ,” Grantaire said as he shifted to the side. “Come sit with me?” 

Enjolras rejoined him on the couch, but as he’d finished his dinner minutes before—a pang of guilt shot through his chest as he realized Grantaire had put off eating for him—he instead curled up against his boyfriend’s warm, solid side and absently drew shapes on his strong forearms. “Thank you,” he murmured, and lifted his hand to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

They weren’t a pair to often verbally declare their love. Instead it came like this; massages and curry and working late and waking early and remembering to feed the cats when one forgot.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! If you did, drop some kudos and let me know down in the comments, or give my fic blog on Tumblr. 
> 
> In order, the pet names:  
>  _Mon soleil_ : my sun  
>  _Tournesol_ : sunflower (my personal fave)  
>  _Aimé_ : beloved  
>  _Ma lumière_ : my light


End file.
